


Strangers in the Night

by fyreyantics



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, Alley Sex, Identity Porn, Insecure Wade Wilson, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitution, Secret Identity, Sex Positive, Slut Peter Parker, Team Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyreyantics/pseuds/fyreyantics
Summary: Peter spent his time tackling down on his mounting college coursework, his under-challenging job, and dressing up in spandex to fight crime. It was a lot. Luckily he had a way to let off steam that had the added bonus of helping him pay his rent. All-in-all it was manageable, until a man in red and black came along one night, making Peter's life difficult in more ways than one.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Original Male Character(s), Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a fic I did for kinktober last year you can find [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21544540) Not necessary to read - it's just a slightly different version of the sex scene in this from Wade's perspective - but it's there if you're interested.
> 
> I worked hard so hopefully it paid off. *thumbs up*

Peter rushed out of the lecture hall, bumping into a student on his way. He spared a glance and a short apology over his shoulder but didn’t slow down. His bag jostled dangerously as he made a run for the campus gates.

The problem with getting from Empire State University to his job was the ridiculously small window of time between class ending and getting to the subway station before his subway train left. It was a frantic race made only the more difficult by the amount of people on the sidewalk, taking leisurely strolls and stopping to look into shop fronts. Peter almost ran into a pair of tourists admiring a store display. He quickly stepped around them making a beeline for the underground station.

Peter hated being late - it made it look like he didn't take his job seriously. But he did. He took his job very seriously, if only because Peter was really lucky to even have it.

His pulse raced as he jogged down the green stairs into the underground, keeping up a brisk pace. Peter came to stop at the crowded platform, chatter filling the space along with the familiar rhythmic jostling sound of the cars passing by. He gave a sigh of relief as he realised he’d somehow manage to get there on time. Hastily scanning over people's heads he rushed his way forward. The sliding doors closed as Peter made it within a few feet. A business man stared impassively at Peter, who watched the grey metal cart fade into the darkness of the tunnel.

The thing was, Peter got stressed about losing his job. Only a few months ago he worked at the Daily Bugle, supplying photos of himself as Spiderman and occasionally writing a small side piece. He got yelled at every day. If he didn't bring in a picture of Spiderman every few days he got even more of a relentless diatribe, the editor-in-chief J.J. Jameson yelling at him about how millennials don’t know how lucky they are, how they're all inherently lazy, how Peter would never make it in life if he didn't get his shit together. Not exactly an ideal working environment. 

The next subway car arrived and Peter barely waited for others to exit before clambering on. He chose to stand near the door. A persistent anxiety simmered in his chest as Peter stood silently. Privately he wondered if he could be fired. He didn't work for Tony Stark personally - in fact, his job aligned closer to Dr Banner than Stark - but Peter knew this job was some kind of a favour.

It had been two months ago. Doombots, once again, were attacking New York and Peter was nearby. Changing quickly into his Spiderman gear, he found himself fighting alongside the Avengers. Iron Man - actual honest-to-god Iron Man - teamed up with him, Peter shooting web to slow the Doombots down while Iron Man shot them to pieces. It was so cool. He couldn't believe it. Captain America had been there too, and Black Widow. Hawkeye shot arrows that exploded and even though he couldn't hear all of them, he could hear Iron Man talking over the comms to the Avengers and even that was amazingly exciting. Peter had been so giddy about it all that even his spider sense didn't have enough time to warn him of an attack from behind. He was knocked out. He woke up hours later, unmasked and in a medical bay in Stark Tower. Peter didn't have any lasting damage - only a bruised ego and a stifling shame that he'd been so careless. They treated him differently after that, especially Tony Stark.

A few days later Peter got an email saying he'd been chosen to work at Stark Industries as a paid intern. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots. Peter wasn’t the type to take favours but it was Stark Industries and he’d be working in his chosen field of biochemistry and he didn’t want to make a bad impression. Not when one day Peter would join the Avengers - that was a given. It was just a matter of time.

Once they reached Peter's stop he readied himself to be gone right away. From the artificial lighting of below he stepped into the sunny street, warming his skin. Stark Tower was just a block away - a tall, intimidating skyscraper reaching high above all the business buildings nearby. Peter felt small as he approached the large glass doors. He entered into the lobby, immediately hit by the cool air. Slowing his brisk pace, he walked steadily through the spacious lobby. He tried to ignore the women at the front desks, all of them wearing perfectly tailored blouses and skirts with not a hair out of place. Peter knew what he looked like - a young college kid in jeans with scruffy converse and even though he came through here often, the feeling of self-consciousness hadn't faded.

Peter walked towards the elevators, entering one and pressing the button for the sixty-fifth floor. He attempted to smooth his hair and straighten his shirt. The elevator quickly arrived at the designated floor and Peter stepped out. He passed several labs until he came to the one. Quietly he entered.

A balding man in his late forties looked up from his desk. He gave Peter a stern but disappointed look.

"Late again, Parker."

"Sorry, sir."

Dr Davies - the head of the team Peter worked for - never showed anger towards Peter, only disappointment. He was a level-tempered man, a little absent-minded, and incredibly intelligent. Peter had looked into his work before he started his internship: Dr Davies had two PhDs under his belt, several acclaimed scientific journal articles, and a persistent interest in finding ways to use micro-organisms as ways to cure and find vaccines to diseases. Peter admired him, even though he could be patronising at times.

"Parker, check FG652," Dr Davies ordered.

"Yes, sir," Peter said.

FG652 was the name of a fungus the team had been researching. Kept in a back room in controlled conditions behind a glass panel, the bizarre fungus appeared like a tree - a ghastly-green spongy trunk that split into branch-like arms which drooped in a way reminiscent of a willow. Peter greeted it. He called the fungus Simon when no one was around, feeling like it deserved a proper name. Peter carefully checked over the acidity levels and nitrogen levels. They appeared not to have changed from yesterday, or the day before, or all the way to last month.

"Same, Simon,” Peter murmured to the specimen as he took down notes.

Peter spent the next couple of hours taking care of idle tasks and errands. Dr Davies started warming up to Peter again, even letting Peter help brainstorm with the rest of the team, which consisted of two other people. Rachael and Tim were both part-time doctoral students in their mid-twenties. Rachael, barely five foot tall and broad-shouldered, was enthusiastic and more hard-working than her demeanor would have you believe. Peter liked her for the most part - occasionally she got a little prissy and talked to Peter like he didn't know the first thing about biochemistry. Tim on the other hand, was tall and thin, and always wore horn-rimmed glasses. His face very rarely held anything besides a neutral expression. Peter found him difficult to read.

“The sample’s ready,” Tim said in a deep droning voice.

“The sample?” Peter repeated.

“Dr Banner wanted to know about our work on the fungus,” Rachael told Peter, looking up for a moment. She grinned in an almost manic excitement. “It’s cool, right? He’s actually interested in our research!”

Peter smiled. He definitely agreed. He couldn’t blame her at all - Dr Banner had been one of his science heroes when he was growing up. Peter still got a little starstruck around him. He was already feeling nervous at the idea of going up to see him.

Rachael handed him the petri dish with emphatic instructions to be careful with it. She needn't have told him.

Peter took it and headed towards the pristine hallway and down to the elevator. With the dish securely in hand, he entered and pressed the button to go up. With a bing the elevator opened to another floor and Peter shortly found himself at Dr Banner's lab door.

The man in question sat huddled at a desk, visible in profile from where Peter stood. A stylus rested against his lips as he read over the tablet in front of him. In his lab coat and glasses, he made the quintessential image of a scientist.

Heart beating fast, Peter rapped his knuckles against the glass. Dr Banner looked up, startled from his concentration. “Peter,” he said, face softening into a smile. His eyes glanced to the petri dish in Peter’s hand.

“Ah, is that the specimen?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter said. He moved towards Dr Banner, who got to his feet to receive it. Looking at the petri dish curiously, Dr Banner took it over to a microscope that sat on a bench nearby and slid the sample underneath. He seated himself on a chair put his eye to the eyepiece, adjusting a knob.

Peter took a look around the room in wonder. He covetously eyed the equipment and machines Dr Banner kept. Tony Stark really did provide him with the best of the best. Peter couldn’t help but imagine how amazing it would be to have a lab like this - no one giving him orders or telling him what he can and can't do, given free reign to research whatever he liked. 

Dr Banner’s phone made an abrupt beeping sound. He picked it up. From where Peter stood he could see the Avengers symbol filling the screen. Peter frowned curiously as Dr Banner considered it a moment, then put it back down. Continuing his examination, he said: “I think I’ll hang on to this - if that’s okay with Dr Davies.”

“Yeah, uh, that's cool. I mean it's fine,” Peter stammered.

An awkward few seconds passed by where Peter didn't know if he should go or not.

"Uh, so I'll see you around," Peter said tentatively.

"Oh." Dr Banner raised his head. "Thank you, Peter."

The words warmed him. Peter gave a small smile before leaving the lab and walking back along the corridor. Caught up in thoughts about how cool it was that he even knew Dr Banner, and that Dr Banner knew his name and had actually said 'thank you' to him, like Peter mattered to him. He was so consumed in thought that he almost missed the scene outside the glass window.

A glimpse of red and gold flying through the sky was what caught his attention. A commotion, several blocks away, could be heard as a low rumble. He caught a glimpse of Hawkeye shooting at an unseen enemy.

A pained feeling built in Peter’s chest. His mind clicked - the alert Dr Banner had gotten in the lab must have been a call for the Avengers to assemble. Dr Banner hadn't said anything. He knew Peter was Spider-Man. He knew Peter could fight. Peter did it every night. Maybe not robots or monsters, but crime, and sometimes that was actually harder than it sounded. He'd made one mistake when he'd first teamed up with the Avengers - a small, tiny mistake - so Dr Banner knew (and more crucially, Tony Stark knew) that he could help. Peter was right here. His suit was in his bag, and yet no one had told him.

It really baffled Peter. He was just as useful as Hawkeye. He could hold his own in a fight. He had the dedication, he had experience, and still no one told him whenever an alien or a villain attacked the city. Peter knew he could help. Peter just knew it.

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Opening them, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back to the elevator. It was soon time for the coffee run.

  


  


Despite moving out of Aunt May's, Brooklyn remained Peter's home. He'd found what had been advertised as a 'studio apartment' - one small room with a kitchenette and a bathroom just big enough to hold a toilet and a shower (he had to wash his hands in the kitchen sink). He’d moved out of his Aunt May’s place as a way to get used to 'being independent' - a phrase that Peter's classmates had used that he'd somehow bought into - and to minimise the risk of Aunt May finding out his secret identity. 

Peter couldn’t say whether it was a good idea or not. He could come and go as he pleased in odd hours of the night but paying the rent, having enough money to buy food - that proved a lot harder than he thought.

Dumping his backpack on the floor, Peter collapsed face-first onto the couch. He sighed into the seat cushion, taking a moment before turning onto his front and taking out his phone. He dutifully checked his messages and his emails, then finally checked his bank account. Peter frowned and rubbed his forehead, not liking what he saw.

The truth was that even though his internship paid above the minimum wage, he only worked a few days a week and in the end his paycheck wasn’t enough to pay for rent, utilities, and food. Even at the Daily Bugle it had been a struggle - unless he could sell his photographs of Spiderman, very little could be said of his earnings. It was little wonder that Peter had to find something else to supplement his income.

Pausing to give himself another minute of rest, Peter got to his feet and opened his wardrobe. He made the decision of where he was going tonight.

  


  


Sister Margaret’s was an old stone building on an old graying street in what could only be described as the wrong part of town. During the day it looked far from special; just a structure from decades ago well past its prime, left to be forgotten for decades to come. At night, however, the lights came on, bleeding yellow through the windows into the dark streets, interludes of raucous laughter spilling out at unpredictable intervals.

Hinges squeaked as Peter pushed the door open. The overwhelming warmth of the bar and the smell of beer-soaked wood and sweat immediately hit Peter - something now familiar and almost homey. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The bar was fairly alive that night - a good sign. Peter eyed the crowd. Several tables were occupied by groups of men. All looked rough - some with scars, some looking as though they'd forgone hygiene for a life of crime. He caught a few men checking him out. Peter's lips twitched. He took a seat at the bar.

"Peter, back again," Weasel said, walking over to stand in front of him. "What can I get you? Juice? Milk? A Capri Sun?”

Peter gave him an amused smile. Peter liked Weasel - he was the owner of the bar, and although Peter knew he was involved in some questionable activities, Peter found they got on reasonably well. Initially Weasel had acted cold. He let Peter scout customers and take them out back, but emphatically told Peter he wouldn’t be involved if anything went south. Weasel quickly changed his tune a few weeks later. Probably due to the realisation that Peter could hold his own, and possibly because Peter brought in returning patrons.

Weasel looked over Peter's shoulder. "You have two interested parties. One is looking at you like you're prime steak."

"The tall guy?" Peter asked.

Weasel nodded. Peter hopped up from the bar and coyly approached. With a few words spoken, they both made it out the back door.

Peter could never really explain why he enjoyed getting down on his knees in a dirty alley, giving men he barely knew blowjobs. It didn’t feel filthy - at least, not in a bad way. He didn’t feel ashamed, though he’d probably die of shame if anyone found out. Peter just loved that feeling of sucking someone’s cock and watching them fall apart and lose control, all because of him. He just loved making them come. He loved being the object of their naked desire, and how freeing it felt to bask in it.

The twenty dollars he’d gotten from the man wasn’t enough, but entering the bar again Peter already felt better, the troubles of the day falling away. He took a happy deep breath and went back inside.

His attention was captured by the pool table. With a confidence he lacked in his regular life, Peter strode towards the men surrounding the table. Two of the men - one a stocky bearded biker and the other immaculately groomed with sharp eyes - held their cue sticks. The sharp-eyed man leaned over the table to take his shot, but looked up as Peter drew closer. Peter met his gaze.

“We’re playin’, boy. Find someone else to take out back,” the biker told him in a gruff voice.

“Oi, Bull! Why don’t you have a go?” a spectator jibed.

“Fuck you, I’m not going to let some effing queer suck me off.”

“That a new thing, Bull? Or that pretty boy in Beijing not count?”

The man nicknamed Bull approached the other, his eyes ablaze with anger. “You keep talking shit, I’m gonna slash your fucking face.” He pulled a flick knife from his pocket and flicked it open.

“Uh, actually I just wanted to play the next game,” Peter added quickly. “So everyone’s masculinity is in tact, right? No need for knives.”

Bull eyed him. It felt like minutes before Bull put his knife back in his pocket. “I’ll play ya. How much money you got?”

“Twenty,” Peter admitted.

Bull laughed derisively.

Peter shrugged. “It’ll be a short game.”

And it was. Peter found it easy to find the right angles, shooting balls effortlessly into their holes. Bull insisted Peter was cheating, or that it was a fluke, and ended up beating more and more money. By the end, Peter managed to reel in an extra few hundred.

Towards the end of the last game Peter felt eyes on him. He glanced back towards the bar and saw a man dressed in a red spandex costume with leather and guns, including a mask over his head. No one else was giving any indication that this was unusual and naturally it drew his curiosity. He appeared to be deep in conversation with Weasel.

Intrigued, Peter decided to cross over towards the bar. He caught Weasel's eye on his way over.

"Oh, hey Peter. Good game?"

Peter took out the cash from his pocket, unable to hide his grin, before putting it back.

"Nice,” Weasel said with an approving nod.

Peter looked at the man in red inquisitively. Up close he was no less enigmatic - the red mask with diamond-shaped black over his eyes and white slits where his eyes should be. It was something a superhero might wear, not at all like a mercenary or a thief - the complete the opposite of discreet.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Peter asked.

"He's hideously disfigured," Weasel replied.

A sharp sense of indignation swelled in Peter's chest. He turned to the man. "I'm sure you don't look that bad."

"No, he's right,” the man responded, his voice characterful - almost melodic. “It's horrific. Think Freddy Krueger but with better bone structure."

"So you wear a costume because you think you don't look great?" Peter asked dubiously. "You're not some kind of superhero?"

Weasel snorted a laugh. "Who, Deadpool?"

"Hey, sometimes the Avengers let me help," Deadpool, apparently the man's name, interjected defensively.

"That's funny," Peter said, "I've never seen you with them. Uh, you know, like on the news." He really hadn't, and it was an odd thing to lie about.

"You wouldn't," Weasel muttered.

"Yeah, well, I don't do it for the fame." Deadpool stretched his arms out, biceps bulging as he flexed them not-so-subtly before bringing them in. Peter keenly tracked the movements.

"Nope, he does it for the money," Weasel commented.

"Same," Peter quipped. He stared at Deadpool, softly biting his lower lip and tilting his head. Deadpool looked Peter up and down and came to a decision.

"So, alleyway? That's your game, right?"

Peter grinned. He led Deadpool out of the bar and into the back alley. It was immediately quieter and Peter could hear behind him Deadpool's boots crunched against stray gravel. Peter stopped a few feet away from the door.

"Money?" Peter offered his palm.

Deadpool opened his wallet, slid out a note, and placed it into Peter's hand. Peter blinked. It was a hundred dollars. He looked back up at Deadpool.

"That's..."

"Yeah, the disfigured shit is the whole shebang. No one sucks my dick for less than that."

Peter found that hard to believe. He wanted to hand it back - tell Deadpool he was being ridiculous, he could just take the normal twenty, but a hundred dollars was hard to turn down. In the end Peter shoved the note into his pocket.

He sunk down to his knees, looking up at Deadpool with wide eyes. He had to admit that giving a blowjob to someone in full costume was going to be weird - but the idea of not knowing who this man was or what he even looked like was a bit of a turn on. Reaching up, Peter undid Deadpool’s belt. He rubbed slowly at the front of Deadpool's trousers, smiling, before dipping his hand inside to pull out his cock.

Seeing the scars covering the skin, Peter technically understood why Deadpool would be insecure. But beyond that, his cock looked better than most Peter saw. The shaft nice and thick, a good length, and a beautifully sloped head, perfect for sucking.

Peter ducked his head forward and gave the tip a broad lick. His tongue moved to explore more, tasting the skin and trailing over the different textures - smooth, then a little rough, then a tiny bump.

Humming happily, Peter kissed his way up along Deadpool's length before slipping the head into his mouth. Peter sucked, letting his tongue play with the slit then took more into his mouth. Peter wished he could see the man's face - he loved watching the reactions and seeing how he made them feel. He still kept his gaze up where the eyes were on the man's mask, giving him a wide-eyed innocent gaze. Peter gripped Deadpool's cock and with hollowed cheeks, began bobbing his head up and down the length, sucking and stroking Deadpool's cock in tandem. He moaned around the shaft as his own cock started to stir to attention. Above him, Deadpool let out a breathy groan.

Encouraged, Peter let Deadpool's cock slide along his tongue and deep into his mouth. Peter loved how it felt, this stranger's cock filling him and sliding so smoothly against his tongue, and he couldn't help but want to take it all, feel all of Deadpool's cock, immerse himself in the taste and sensation. He took it until the head brushed the back of Peter's throat and then held himself there.

"Fuck," Deadpool gasped.

Peter moaned happily, pulling his head back. He placed his hands on Deadpool's hips to keep himself steady and slid his lips forward along the shaft once more, shifting himself backwards and forwards so that Deadpool's cock hit the back of Peter's throat over and over. Deadpool groaned lowly in earnest, his gloved hand reaching to lightly grasp at Peter's head.

"Fuck, you don't have a gag reflex, do ya?" Deadpool asked. "Fuck." 

Peter drew himself off of Deadpool's cock, taking in a breath of air.

"Nope," he said with a bright smile, one hand stroking near the head of Deadpool's cock. He kept his eyes fixed up at Deadpool as he sucked again at the head, tonguing the slit, enjoying the small amount of salty precome he found there. He slapped Deadpool's cock against his tongue, hungry for it, and let his eyelashes flutter as he slide the sensitive head over it. Peter wanted to taste all of him, feel every minutiae of the unusual texture of his skin. 

"Goddamn. You look fucking perfect, anyone tell you that? You deserve that hundred, baby boy." Deadpool carded his gloved hand through Peter's hair with something close to affection. "Jesus fuck - want it deep again - " 

Peter swallowed down Deadpool's cock again, humming around his length briefly before bobbing his head down and up the shaft, Deadpool hitting the back of his throat. Deadpool's hand clenched and unclenched in Peter's hair.

Peter’s face had grown red by the time Deadpool pushed his head off his cock. He took more gulps of air and was on Deadpool’s cock again.

“Fuck,” Deadpool whispered harshly.

His breath was nearly running out when Deadpool pulled back, breaths falling heavy. “Peter, I’m nearly -”

Peter grabbed hold of Deadpool’s cock and started stroking his length. "Where do you want to come?" 

Deadpool groaned. "Your mouth, baby boy, open your mouth for me."

Peter readily parted his lips, hungry for it. His hand worked Deadpool’s cock frantically as Deadpool rambled.

"You're so perfect, want to see you with my come in your mouth, your pretty fucking mouth, baby boy -"

Deadpool gasped, come spurting from his cock and into Peter's mouth. He tasted the saltiness on his tongue, and waited until Deadpool had spilled his last drop before swallowing it all down with satisfaction. 

Deadpool let go of Peter's hair and heaved a deep breath.

"Holy crap."

"Good?" Peter askedt.

“I mean...of fucking course.”

Peter laughed. He looked at Deadpool for a moment, considering him, as Deadpool tucked himself away.

"It really isn't that bad," Peter said in a casual manner, getting to his feet and brushing off the dirt from his jeans.

"What?"

"Your dick,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “It tasted fine. The skin’s a bit weird, sure, but it’s, uh, kind of nice to have something different, you know? I’ve had way worse.”

Deadpool looked at him, confused.

"So, you know, don't feel bad about it next time." Peter smiled, winked, then went back into the bar leaving Deadpool to stand in the middle of the alleyway. 

Peter was really counting on there being a next time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while. I had to wrangle with this chapter. My hard drive died as well this week so I'm posting this on my phone and hoping things turn out okay (thank god for google docs or I would have had to rewrite the whole thing).

Peter sank into the bar stool, looking around the bar surreptitiously. This was the third time he'd been at Sister Margaret's that week - a record for him - because he honestly expected Deadpool to be there. Customers usually hung around a lot more after a first encounter, just waiting for Peter to show up. Deadpool hadn’t. Peter was sure he’d made a good impression so it just didn’t make sense. All he wanted was to suck his cock again. It wasn’t that big of an ask. But at least the extra hours spent at Sister Margaret’s meant extra cash.

Resting his head in his palm, Peter watched Weasel fill a glass of beer and hand it to a man. He heard the cash register shut as he built up the nerve.

"Hey, when does Deadpool show up usually?" Peter asked Weasel.

Weasel gave Peter a curious look that he schooled into a more neutral expression. "Deadpool? Yeah, he's not exactly predictable. He's working a job in town - I know that much."

"Oh, right.” Peter suddenly found a small stain on the bar incredibly interesting, trailing it with his finger.

"Why d'you ask? He owe you or something?"

"No. He, uh, actually pays really well," Peter replied, glancing up cautiously.

"Does he?” Weasel scoffed. “Asshole owes me two grand."

Peter said nothing for a moment. He took a breath. “So what does he do exactly? I mean, wearing a red costume like that...how does that work out?”

Weasel considered Peter. “Merc. About as subtle as a bull in a glass dildo factory, but he gets shit done.”

"Right," Peter said, not sure if that really made things any clearer.

"Want me to throw you a message when he's in?” Weasel asked. “Hate to have my favourite rent boy go without his moolah."

“Um, yeah, sure, that’d be great." He fished out his phone from his pocket but Weasel handed him a pen and a small piece of paper. Peter wrote his number down and slid the paper back.

“How many guys you fucked here and I’m the one who gets your number,” Weasel commented as he picked it up and looked it over. He folded it and put it in his pocket. 

“Don’t say it too loud, you might make them jealous.”

Weasel gave a dry chuckle. “I’ll bet.”

//

Peter aimed at a nearby building, shooting a string of web before swinging himself forward, colliding with the cool night air before soundlessly landing on the roof. Sitting in a crouch, he eyed the lamp-lit streets below.

New York - the city that never sleeps. Peter didn't appreciate how true that was until putting on the suit.

Even in the dark back alleyways life could be found, whether it was the clink of bottles as a startled stray cat tips them over in its wake, or the shouted conversation from the street up to an apartment window floors up, sparking the attention of others who only join in with the yelling. So much of it was innocuous - white noise when Peter tried to find criminals to stop. But it wasn’t always clear cut. What could seem like a drug dealer with a couple of paying customers sometimes was just a night time meeting between friends; the money exchanged simply paying for their share of last night's drinks or the cost of the cab.

What could never be mistaken, however, was the classic mugging at gunpoint. Peter keyed in to the situation. Two muggers, only one armed, and a woman alone. He shot his web, using the shadows to hide on the brick wall behind the men, hands and feet clinging to the wall.

"Come on, hand it over. Hurry up," one of them said, strengthening his hold on the gun in his hand. 

The woman was silent in fear, eyes wide and her hands shaking as she clung to her snap-lock purse.

"He's serious, you know. He'll shoot," the other man said.

Peter examined the situation, calculating risk. He couldn't startle the man holding the gun in case he got trigger happy. That would put the woman at risk. Instead he elected to go for the other man. Aiming with his hand, Peter shot his web at the unarmed man's ankles and tugged. His body collided with the ground with a hard thump. Peter’s attention switched as the gun now focussed on him. The gunman gave Peter a dumb-founded look, and Peter took advantage of the moment to somersault forward. He bridged the gap between him and the mugger. Tilting out of the gun’s way, Peter ducked and harshly twisted the man’s wrist. The gun clattered to the ground. Peter kicked it away further down the alley.

“Go, lady!” Peter called out, narrowly missing a punch. She hesitated before taking flight, heels clacking against the pavement.

The armed man took a punch at Peter's head. He easily dodged the move, rejoining it with a punch of his own. The man stumbled, cradling his jaw. Behind him, Peter sensed the other man coming for him. Again Peter simply moved to the side, the man's forward momentum causing him to stumble. He nearly landed face first onto the ground but caught his balance.

"You know, surely there's something better you can do than hold innocent people at gunpoint. It’s Friday night, y’know?” Peter ducked a hit. The man on the ground got back up onto his feet. Peter put his hand in position to web him down when the other tackled him. It temporarily winded him. He struggled to get up, the man’s weight pinning him down.

“Get it,” the man above him yelled to the other. Peter easily maneuvered to push the man off him and to the side.

“Oh, come on,” Peter muttered. The other man had rushed and gotten the gun back in his hand. Once again Peter was staring down the barrel. The man fired - actually fired - a resounding bang echoing in the alley. Peter’s spider sense kicked in and he narrowly dodged the bullet. His throat grew tight, an unsettled feeling churning in his gut. Adrenaline truly kicked in, seizing him and driving him forward. The man’s eyes widened, surprised at the approach, but before he could squeeze the trigger again Peter punched him in the jaw. He wrenched the gun from his grasp and turned on the safety. The man in front of him groaned and clutched at his face. Peter grabbed his hands and webbed them tightly before switching his attention to the other one.

“Alright, we doing this the easy way or the hard way?”

The man turned tail and ran. Peter dashed forward and while running aimed his hand to stick web to his back. He tugged him backwards.

"Fuck you, Spiderman,” he said as Peter got the two men together and wrapped them in web. “You'll get what's coming to you one day."

"As far as bad guy talk goes, that’s pretty unoriginal, but it’s got a vintage feel, so you know what? Points.”

Peter checked his handiwork then left them on the sidewalk, using the payphone to phone in to the police.

"Adiós!" he called before shooting back up to the top of a building.

He landed gracefully on his feet. “Whew,” he muttered to himself. He sat himself down on the edge of the building and thought about taking a short break - maybe if he was fast he could get his hands on some bubble tea on down on 8th - when he spotted something odd. Someone else was on the roof the next building down. They weren’t moving - in fact, it looked like they were tied tight with an excess amount of rope.

“What the…?” Peter got up and jogged closer.

Across the next street, a man in his forties clad in a business suit sat coiled in rope. A dark piece of fabric worked as a blindfold across his eyes, and a separate piece as a gag. Both were tied around the back of his head.

Peter quickly swung over. His feet padded on the dirty concrete as he approached. A slight coppery smell tingled Peter's nose. Eyes widening behind the mask, Peter then noticed the handle of a knife sticking out from the man's leg, and bizarrely, a note. In a red manic scrawl in crayon that simply read 'BAD GUY'. 

The man startled to attention at the sound of Peter's footsteps. He wriggled in his binds, agitated words muffled by the fabric in his mouth.

"It's okay, I'm here to help," Peter told him, quickly crouching down to remove the blindfold and then the gag. The man coughed.

"Where is he?" he asked frantically, eyes darting around him.

"Uh, who?" Peter asked. He started on the rope, picking at a stubborn knot.

"The maniac who did this to me! Who - oh god, the knife." He closed his eyes and took deep breaths.

"It's okay, sir, I'm going to get you an ambulance. You, uh, aren't bleeding out..." Peter left out the fact that there was a small puddle of red beneath his leg, long since turned to a crust of red.

The well-dressed man laughed sardonically. "Oh, great. I'm not bleeding out. I've only been attacked - for no reason - by some deranged freak!"

Peter frowned intently at the 'BAD GUY' note. "What do you remember about him?"

"He was annoying. He wouldn't shut up. Attacked me from behind like a coward - why are you asking me this when you could be getting me help? Aren't you heroes supposed to help people?"

"Sorry, sir. I'll just go find a payphone." Peter got to his feet as the rope fell away from the man.

"Wait, don't leave me here! What if he comes back?"

"I don't think he will. I think he wanted you to be found here," Peter said evenly, thinking out loud. In all honesty it was similar to how Peter left criminals for the police to find - how he just had a block down. An unsettled feeling stirred in his gut. "I won't be long."

Peter waited with the man while the ambulance was on its way. He tried to be sympathetic, but the man seemed to struggle with being anything more than irritated and rude. More than anything he enjoyed complaining, and though Peter tried to get more information about his kidnapper, there wasn't much forth-coming.

Just as Peter was about to get another earful about how superheroes 'attracted crazies to our cities', paramedics burst through the door carrying a stretcher behind them. They quickly got the man onto it but as they did so, Peter noticed a small USB drive falling to the floor, straight out of the businessman’s pocket. He grabbed it.

"Sir, you dropped this," Peter said, rushing to the business man’s side. The man just gave him an exasperated look.

"Not mine," he replied.

The paramedics carried him into the building, the door off the roof closing and leaving Peter alone on the empty rooftop.

"Well, that's weird," Peter muttered to himself. He frowned at the USB drive in his palm. He clenched his fist around it and swung off into the night.

...

Peter checked that the coast was clear before pushing up one of his apartment windows and hopping inside. He pulled off his mask and dragged his fingers through his hair. Sitting down on his bed, Peter dropped the mask beside him. He stayed a moment, thinking about the night's events. He couldn't make heads or tails of it. Whoever decided to tie up the man obviously wanted Peter to find him - why else leave someone on a rooftop in the middle of Brooklyn bound up with a note? It was Peter's M.O. - except with webbing instead of rope. A psychotic admirer? Maybe. But was the businessman really a ‘bad guy’, as he put it? Peter probably should have asked for the businessman’s name and done at least a bit of investigating, but honestly, he'd just seemed like a normal arrogant businessman.

Peter rubbed his furrowed brow and eyed the USB drive. He got up and slipped out of his Spiderman suit, putting on a simple t-shirt and sweatpants. Yawning, he opened up his laptop and inserted the drive. He opened the folder with a modicum of trepidation.

His eyes trailed over several folders. All the names read dates along with graphs, reports, and accounts - the kind of boring analytics Peter would expect a business to have records of. He clicked on a few, checking their contents. Nothing screamed anything but ordinary but Peter did discover that the company dealt in property investments and realty. He viewed folder after folder after folder but there was nothing. Peter’s eyes grew weary from staring at the screen. It was half past four in the morning and he had to get up at seven for class.

He removed the USB drive and closed his laptop, settling down for bed. He’d figure it all out tomorrow.

Sleep took him almost immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was my first fight scene tbh, so if anyone has any constructive criticism that'd be appreciated. (was the pacing a bit weird?)
> 
> Hope it was alright, yeah?


End file.
